


Trauma

by elsaunfiltered



Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017), Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: Bring Bughead to Work, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nurse Betty, Patient Jughead, Take Your Fandom to Work Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:44:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaunfiltered/pseuds/elsaunfiltered
Summary: Betty is a bored travel nurse assigned to the sleepy town of Riverdale, but when a stabbing victim is rushed into the emergency room, the town doesn't seem quite as mundane anymore.Written for bugheadfanfictionaward's "Bring Bughead to Work" challenge on Tumblr. Beta'd by the wonderful, extraordinary Bugggghead :)





	Trauma

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I took a brief break from Darkest Hour to write this oneshot for bugheadfanfictionaward's "Bring Bughead to Work" challenge, and as you'll soon find out, my work is nursing (or it will be once I graduate in December). 
> 
> This was beta'd by the forever lovely bugggghead, and if you haven't read her work, you are seriously missing out. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

Betty sighed as she clocked into work at Riverdale General. When she signed up to be a travel nurse, she knew she would be sent to places that were in desperate need of staffing, but most of those places were large cities; she had just come from a trauma unit in Chicago for heaven’s sake! To be sent to this small town of all places (immediately after the insanity of an inner-city trauma unit) was torture. Betty was used to high-paced action with critically ill patients. At Riverdale General, the most exciting thing she had seen so far was appendicitis. _Appendicitis!_

“Hey, Betty,” said Ethel, one of her fellow nurses, once Betty walked into the nurse’s station. Ethel was the closest the travel nurse had come to making a friend in Riverdale.

“Hey, Ethel,” Betty replied, taking a sip of her coffee. The caffeinated beverage was the one thing that she could count on to get her through the night shift at the world’s slowest-paced hospital. “How’s it going?” 

“Same old, same old,” Ethel shrugged, taking a sip out of her own thermos. 

Betty almost made a dry remark about how ‘ _Same old, same old_ ’ would be the perfect slogan for this boring town. As far as she could tell, she was the only person in all of Riverdale that hadn’t been born there, and the locals were very protective of their homestead, so she held her tongue instead. 

The shift began like any other shift at Riverdale General. There weren’t many patients, and those that did come into the emergency room were not ‘emergencies’ per say, but simple ear or sinus infections that need antibiotics past the hour that normal doctor’s offices closed. 

After discharging her second common cold case, Betty sat at her computer and charted on her patients, sipping her coffee moodily. She didn’t know how she was supposed to get through two more months of this mundane assignment. Even her days off were boring; she would usually eat breakfast at Pop’s, the _only_ restaurant in town, and then walk her dog around Sweetwater River. That was it. 

All of a sudden, Jaquelin, the charge nurse, hurried into the nurse’s station, looking frazzled. Her gray hair looked unkempt and her arrival was announced by her hoarse smoker’s cough. “Listen up, ladies. We have a level one trauma coming in.”

Betty’s head shot up, her ponytail swinging rapidly.

“But we aren’t a level one trauma center,” Ethel said nervously from her computer, her brown eyes large and full of worry. 

“The closest transport chopper is down for maintenance and the patient is too critical to wait,” Jaquelin replied, looking grim. “We’re going to have to handle it here. Betty, you’re going to take him. You have the most recent experience with this type of case. ETA is three minutes.” 

Betty nodded and stood up; her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, adrenaline beginning to course through her veins. She felt the familiar sting of her nails digging into her palms, but stopped herself immediately. This was no time to let her anxiety take control. 

As expected, several minutes later, the double doors to the ER bay burst open, and two EMTs rushed in with a gurney. Betty raced to meet them, taking in their report. 

“Victim is a twenty-four-year-old male with multiple lacerations to his abdomen,” the EMT that was pushing the gurney told her. The other was busy applying an oxygen mask to the victim’s face. “He was alert and oriented times four when we put him in the ambulance, but he’s started fading. My guess is blood loss.” 

Betty nodded, looking down at the patient as they navigated the hallway. His black leather jacket was soaked in blood, and she could tell the deep garnet tank top he had on underneath used to be white. The victim’s face was an ashy gray color, and his lips were tinged with blue. This patient was in need of more care than they could provide him in the emergency room.

Pulling the victim’s arm out of his jacket, the nurse quickly wrapped a blood pressure cuff around it and watched his breathing, assessing his vital signs. His blood pressure was 80/40, his oxygen saturation was at 75%, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. Betty had the sinking feeling that he would not last long down here. Grabbing a kit out of a nearby cabinet, she quickly inserted a large bore IV into the victim’s right AC site before he became so dehydrated that his veins collapsed. She turned to the EMTs, who were looking at her with identical, impressed expressions.

“They’re going to want him up in CT and then probably in the operating room,” Betty told them. “I’ll make sure he has a recovery room down here if he makes it, but he needs to be in surgery. I’ll go ahead and page the CT and OR staff to let them know.” 

The EMTs nodded and rushed the gurney to the nearest transport elevator.

As promised, Betty paged both the CT and OR staff and told them they had a stabbing victim on the way up. The staff was obviously not used to this type of case, but received the report she gave them readily. 

Though she knew the surgery could take hours, if the patient even survived, she set about gathering the supplies she would need and set up his room. She grabbed two different oxygen masks, wound care supplies, and even paged the emergency room physician on duty to let him know they would probably need several units of blood once the patient returned to the floor. 

“Good work back there,” Jaquelin told Betty once she returned to the nurse’s station. After setting up her trauma patient’s room, she had checked on her other patients before returning to her computer to continue charting. 

“Thanks,” Betty shrugged. “Just like riding a bike.” 

“Our nurses are pretty out of practice with this type of acute care,” the charge nurse continued. “We don’t see many cases like these, but it’s opened my eyes to the fact that things like this do happen, and that we need to be prepared when they do. Once your travel rotation finishes, you should consider signing on full-time here. I would hire you in a second.” 

Betty smiled at her superior. “Thanks, Jaquelin. I’ll think about it.” 

It was nice to hear compliments on her work, even if Riverdale was the _last_ place she thought she would ever consider signing on permanently.

  

* * *

 

Two hours later, the ER got the call that the patient was on his way back down from surgery. Normally, a patient would go to the PACU immediately after the OR, but Jaquelin had called and explained the extenuating circumstances to the charge nurse upstairs, and they agreed it was best for the patient to stay under Betty’s care for the time being.

Betty walked into the room once the transport service had wheeled the patient in. He was pale, but still had much more color than before. She placed his bag of personal belongings, including his bloody leather jacket and wallet, on the table next to his bed, and immediately began taking vitals. His blood pressure was up to 99/62, still low, but much improved. She connected his telemetry pads, and began looking at his heart rhythms once they appeared on the screen next to his bed. Everything seemed stable for the time being and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Pulling up his chart on the computer in his room, Betty scanned the notes from CT as well as the operating room. In addition to two broken ribs, there were four total stab wounds, all in his abdomen, and all had miraculously missed any vital organs other than a small nick on the liver, which did not seem to concern the doctors. The majority of the surgery had been stitching up both the internal and external lacerations and giving blood transfusions. Everything went well, and the doctors expected a full recovery.

Betty checked the file and saw that the patient’s name was Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third (‘ _Ouch_ ,’ she thought), and she turned back to his bag of personal belongings. Experience had taught her to unbag garments with blood on them to allow them to air out. As a fledgling nurse, she had even sent bloodied clothing to the hospital’s laundry room staff as a courtesy to the patients, but after several patients had actually _wanted_ their soiled garments, generally as some form of trophy, she had quickly learned to leave them be.

Pulling out the leather jacket to dry, she read the logo on the back. _Southside Serpents_. Glancing at Mr. Jones and back to the garment, it all made sense. In Chicago, the vast majority of the stabbing and gunshot wounds had involved gang members or some form of criminal activity. It had been incredibly rare for any law-abiding citizen to end up in the emergency room after being shanked. Why would it be any different in Riverdale?

Sighing, she hung the jacket on a hook on the wall and hung the formerly-white tank top next to it. Betty turned back to her patient and quickly took his vitals again, which were thankfully still stable. All of his IV lines were running properly, and she gave him a dose of pain medication, which he would surely need when he woke. 

“All right, Forsythe,” Betty told the sleeping patient. She turned toward the door. “I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”

“Don’t…call me that,” slurred a very groggy voice from behind Betty. 

Jumping slightly, Betty turned around to see bright blue eyes staring at her through exceptionally heavy eyelids. 

“I’m sorry?” she asked loudly, walking up to the bed and immediately retaking his vital signs. Everything still looked good. 

“Don’t call me…that,” came the same slurred response. 

“Don’t call you Forsythe?” Betty asked, confused. “But that’s your name.” 

“My…name…is Jughead,” the patient said with substantial effort, and then seemed to fall back asleep. 

Betty froze. This was not normal behavior, and she immediately began checking the patient over for signs and symptoms of a stroke. There didn’t seem to be any facial droop or one-sided weakness. Everything _seemed_ intact, but a patient not knowing his own name after anesthesia was _not_ a common finding. 

“Jaquelin, can you come in here?” she called through the open room, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. 

The charge nurse trotted through the doors. “What’s up?” 

“He woke up for a minute and tried to tell me his name was ‘Jughead’.” Betty lifted the patient’s eyelids and shined her penlight into them, looking for a response. “He doesn’t have any symptoms of a stroke or bad side effects from anesthesia, but I wanted to check with you before deciding whether or not to call a brain attack.” 

Jaquelin paused for a moment before letting out a raspy chuckle. “That _is_ his name, Betty. Or at least what he goes by. To be honest, I didn’t even know the kid’s real name until I saw it on the chart. Pretty certain nobody except his dad does.” 

“Thank goodness.” Betty let out a sigh of relief. Even though ‘Jughead’ was hands-down the most horrendous nickname she had ever heard, she was beyond grateful her patient wasn’t stroking out. She and her charge nurse slipped out of the room, closing the door behind them and allowing their patient to rest.

 

* * *

 

Betty spent the majority of the next three hours checking in on Jughead as he rested. His vitals remained stable, and as far as she could tell, he was in the best health that could be expected for someone that had just been stabbed repeatedly. The surgeon that operated on him dropped by as well and had told Betty to keep up the good work, which she appreciated. As a nurse, compliments from doctors were generally hard to come by. 

Around 4 AM, Betty stopped in to check on Jughead and found him awake. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Jones. I’m Betty, and I’m your assigned nurse this evening,” she said, smiling at him. She walked over and checked his vitals, which had remained stable. His blood pressure was back within the desired range, which was a positive sign. 

“Hi,” Jughead said. He went to sit up and winced, holding his stomach gingerly. 

“You’re due for some pain medication in about fifteen minutes,” Betty told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“That would be swell,” the patient groaned, settling back against his pillows. “I’m normally against taking any sort of narcotics, but desperate times, desperate measures. And speaking of desperate times, do you mind grabbing my beanie for me?” He glanced up at Betty, his blue eyes meeting her green ones. 

Betty felt the spark instantaneously, and judging by the slightly raised eyebrows on her patient, Jughead had as well. She quickly removed her hand from his shoulder, and once she gave him his strange gray woolen hat that vaguely resembled a crown, she busied herself with going through his chart for any additional physician notes. 

“I don’t recognize you,” Jughead said once Betty’s back was turned. He seemed to have recovered from their moment as well. “Are you new in town?” 

“I’m a travel nurse,” Betty replied. “I’m assigned to different hospitals around the country for three months at a time. Riverdale is my last rotation this year.” 

“That sounds incredibly lonely.” 

Betty shrugged and nodded, turning back to her patient. “It has its own set of pros and cons,” she admitted. “The pay is really good, and I get to see a lot of different places. I came here from Chicago about a month ago, and before that I was in Washington DC.” 

“And now you’re in Riverdale,” Jughead replied, giving her a knowing glance. “God, you must be bored out of your mind.”

Betty laughed. “It’s not the most exciting assignment I’ve ever had,” she allowed, wanting to keep the conversation professional. “But it’s really pretty here.” 

“It’s okay,” Jughead told her. “You can tell it as it is. I can see this town’s flaws too. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one.” He paused, “This town is about as exciting as watching white paint dry, but it’s home. All my friends are here, and my dad is here. The stars haven’t aligned for me to get out yet, and sometimes I honestly wonder if they ever will.” His voice was low, almost as if he was lost in his own thoughts as the words hung idly in the air between them. 

Betty glanced on the wall towards the bloody leather jacket. She assumed by ‘friends’, he meant his fellow gang members. Though she found herself thinking that Jughead Jones was quite the conundrum. He was very well-spoken, more so than any other gang member she had ever encountered previously. 

Despite coming off of anesthesia, as well as having pain medication in his system, Jughead was quite perceptive. He saw her studying his jacket and he sighed. “I guess I’m going to need another jacket, huh? Thanks for saving it by the way. We’ll have to put it on display at the Wyrm.” 

“The Wyrm?” 

“The bar where my friends and I hang out. Local place. It’s nothing like the sky bars in Chicago, but if you wanted to, you could come check it out sometime.” 

Betty felt her cheeks flush. She didn’t know whether or not this was him asking her to hang out or just being friendly, but when she realized that she was actually _hoping_ it was the former, she put a stop to that line of thinking and scolded herself. 

“I’m going to go grab your morphine for you,” she told him abruptly. Walking toward the door, she almost ran into a man with dark hair and scruff that was hurrying into the room. 

“Jug,” the older man said, rushing to her patient’s bedside. “I’m sorry, son. I was out on my bike and didn’t get anyone’s calls or texts until I got back.” 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Jughead replied, sitting up and grimacing. “I’m okay. Just a little sliced and diced.” 

Snorting, Betty decided that was her cue to leave and grab Jughead’s morphine. Generally, patients liked privacy when reuniting with family after traumatic events, and she quickly slipped from the room and retrieved Jughead’s pain medication from the Pyxis machine. She returned to the doorway a few minutes later and Jughead’s father had settled into the chair at his son’s bedside. 

“I was standing outside the building waiting on Frank to pick up the goods when three Ghoulies pulled up and jumped me,” Jughead was telling his father. “I fought them off pretty well until one of them started stabbing me.” 

Betty busied herself with preparing Jughead’s medications, doing her best to appear as though she wasn’t eavesdropping. She certainly had no business knowing what type of ‘goods’ her patient was delivering somewhere late at night, but she couldn’t help the way it piqued her curiosity. 

“Did they take the stuff you were dropping off?” FP asked.

“No,” his son replied. “I think they were just out driving around and saw an opportunity. Besides, I think they would have been pretty disappointed in that stock.”

FP’s features visibly hardened before he shook his head angrily. “I’ll be having words with Malachi.” 

Jughead grimaced. “What’s the point? He’s not going to care.” 

“What was the point of the truce if his guys are going to jump my guys?” 

Jughead shrugged, wincing at the intense pain the minimal movement had caused. “I think we’re the only ones who took that seriously.”

Sensing a break in their conversation, Betty stepped through the door and held up the syringe to Jughead, hoping they hadn’t realized she was listening. “This is your morphine, so it’ll help with your pain,” she told him. “Let me know if you start having any nausea or trouble breathing.” 

Jughead nodded, closing his eyes. He had lost some color in his cheeks and had sweat beading on his forehead, clear indicators that he was in pain. 

Betty inserted the syringe into the IV port in Jughead’s arm and injected the medication. She turned away to check and make sure his fluids and antibiotics were running appropriately, which they were. 

“Hey, Betty?” 

“What’s up?” she asked, turning back toward him. She immediately noticed his face had a gray-green tinge to it, and she quickly grabbed a vomit bag and handed it to him, which he immediately retched into. Without thinking, Betty rubbed Jughead’s back as his body heaved painfully into the emesis bag. She made brief, awkward eye contact with his father before returning her focus back to her patient.

“I think I’m done,” Jughead said weakly a minute later. He gingerly held his stomach. “I’m sorry about all of that.” 

Betty took the bag from him and quickly tossed it in the trash before getting a new one for him to keep at his bedside. She imagined vomiting with an abdomen full of stab wounds would be incredibly unpleasant. 

“No need to apologize, I can get you some Zofran to keep the nausea under control,” she told him. “Both anesthesia and morphine can mess with your stomach.” 

“How did you know what I needed before I asked?” Jughead asked her, moving his blue eyes to hers.

Betty paused, unable to answer for a moment, her words escaping her as the icy tone of his irises fixated on the emerald tone of hers. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks, hoping he hadn’t realized she was staring. “I’ve been doing this for a couple years now,” she told him, purposefully breaking the eye contact. “Once you see the coloring your face just had a time or two, figuring out that a patient needs a barf bag becomes second nature.”

 

* * *

 

 At seven the next morning, the daytime shift came in to relieve Betty and the rest of the night staff. Jughead was her only patient at the time, so she walked into his room and found him awake and sitting up. His father had left shortly after the vomiting episode the night before, and Jughead had been on his own and resting ever since. 

“My replacement is here,” Betty told him, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave for the day? I’ll be back tonight.” 

“If you have the remote from _Click_ , I’d appreciate you rewinding the last ten hours or so,” he told her, shutting his eyes and laying back against his pillows. He had received all the pain medication he could have for the time being, but he still seemed to be uncomfortable. 

“Didn’t you see how that movie ended?” Betty teased him, attempting to lighten the mood. She placed her hand on his leg through the sheets and ignored the lurch it brought to her stomach. “I’m going to head home and let my dog out and get some sleep if there’s nothing else I can do for you.” 

“Get some rest, Sleeping Beauty. I’ll see you tonight.”

 

* * *

 

Walking into work the next evening, Betty found that she wasn’t dreading her shift like she normally did. She realized that it was entirely due to the beanie-clad patient she had waiting for her in a nearby room, and as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she mentally kicked herself. The nurse knew she had absolutely zero business being attracted to one of her patients, especially one with gang affiliations that had been stabbed while ‘dropping off goods’ in the middle of the night.

“Nurse Ratchet returns.” Jughead smirked at her when she walked into his room. Midge, his daytime nurse, smiled thankfully when she saw her walk in; Betty was sure she was ready to get home to her husband. 

“You’re looking better,” Betty told him, looking him up and down. She glanced at his chart and saw that his vitals remained stable throughout the day shift, and that he had refused pain medication earlier. 

“I’m feeling a little better. Except this one rule where the doctors won’t let me eat solid food,” he said flatly, sending an annoyed look at Midge.

“Somehow, I doubt your sliced intestines would appreciate any solid food at the moment,” Betty replied, enjoying their banter. “According to your chart, you should be able to start solid food in a couple of days.” 

“A couple days?” Jughead’s eyes were wide. “ _Days_? You’ve got to help me. I’m wasting away here, Betts.” 

Betty’s stomach fluttered at the abbreviation of her name. She knew realistically a nickname didn’t exactly _mean_ anything, but she couldn’t help the butterflies it summoned.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, recovering slightly. “The doctors specifically say to keep you on a thickened liquid diet through at least tonight, and that they would check on you in the morning to figure out where to go from here. I assume they meant discharge plans, but if food is more important to you than going home, I’m sure we can work with that.”

Jughead sighed dramatically, wincing as his ribs protested. “Priorities, Betty. Food is always most important, no matter what,” he said weakly.

Betty smiled and rolled her eyes at him. “How bad is your pain right now?” She said, a bit more serious. 

“Six out of ten, give or take an integer. But my hunger pains are a ten out of ten if you were wondering about those.”

“You’re due for some pain meds,” Betty said, checking his medication records. “Want some?”

“Maybe just Tylenol,” he replied. “I want to try to stay away from the morphine if I can.”

“It’s okay to use morphine if you need it, Jug,” Betty said softly, placing a light, comforting hand on his shoulder. She searched his blue eyes for signs of discomfort, willing him to be honest with her. 

“I think I’m fine for now,” he told her, averting her gaze. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” 

“Sounds good,” Betty told him, deciding to drop the subject and retract her hand. “We’re going to get you out of bed sometime this shift too. The sooner you get on your feet, the quicker you’ll get out of here.” 

“And the sooner I can get cheeseburgers from Pop’s,” he said, the playful banter making it’s return full force.

 

* * *

 

A couple hours later, Betty walked over Jughead’s room and found him sitting up on the side of the bed. She leaned against the doorframe, half observing him, half hoping he didn’t notice. His long legs dangled from the edge, swinging slightly. She found herself admiring the black curls peeking out from under her patient’s beanie and briefly wondered what it would feel like to comb her fingers through them. As soon as the idea occurred to her, she scolded herself and walked into the room. 

“Do you want to try getting out of bed?” 

Jughead glanced up at her nervously. “We can try,” he said hesitantly. 

“It’s totally up to you, but it’ll be good to get your blood pumping.” 

“Yeah, what’s left of it,” he laughed. 

“You’re a piece of work, Jughead Jones.” 

“You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that.” 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” 

Getting Jughead out of bed was a slow process, but once he was up on his feet, he shot Betty a triumphant grin. “I think I’m ready for a 5K.” 

“Don’t get cocky on me,” Betty told him as they slowly made their way down the hall and back. Betty had one hand on Jughead’s shoulder, in case he should need any support, and she noticed that it was sweatier than usual. 

The walk began successfully, but Jughead tired quickly, and the trip back to his room was more difficult for him. Once back in his room, Betty informed him it was time to change the dressing on his incisions. She slowly peeled back the bandages, attempting to avoid the inevitable thoughts of him shirtless under other circumstances, and found that his wounds were healing nicely without any signs of infection.

Jughead had thankfully maintained dedicated eye contact with the ceiling the entire time she was examining his incisions, refusing to look down and in turn missing the way her eyes lingered on his abdomen. 

“Don’t tell me you’re squeamish,” Betty said, gently cleaning the healing skin. 

Jughead winced at the contact with the antiseptic. “Blood and guts aren’t my thing. Literature, journalism, and pretty much anything that doesn’t have to do with the inner workings of the human body are fair game.” 

“Literature, huh?” Betty asked, applying new dressings to Jughead’s stomach. The jagged wounds stretched far and wide across his torso, and though the surgeons did their best, he would always have moderate scarring.

“Yeah, if there’s words, I’ll read them.” 

“That surprises me.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Betty felt herself blush. That definitely didn’t come out the way she meant it to. 

This response warranted Jughead’s eyes to finally glance down to her from the ceiling. “It surprises you that I read?” 

“Just that you seem so passionate about it,” Betty said quickly. When Jughead gave her a small smirk and cocked an eyebrow, silently asking for elaboration, and possibly noticing the heat she felt in her cheeks. “You’re an enigma. You show up with near-fatal stab wounds in a leather gang jacket from ‘delivering goods’ at odd hours. Sorry if I have trouble seeing you reading Oscar Wilde in your spare time.” 

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple,” Jughead replied, giving her a crooked smile. “I see you were listening last night, and yeah, I am in a gang, but the goods I was delivering aren’t what you’re thinking. I don’t push drugs. As a matter of fact, I’m totally against drugs. As is the rest of our gang.” 

Betty raised her gloved hands, having finished Jughead’s dressing change. “I don’t need to know the inner workings of what it is that you do,” she told him. “It isn’t my business.”

“I would like for you to know though,” he told her. A slight blush crept up his cheeks. It was the best he had looked for the duration of his stay. “I know you feel this too, Betty. I’m going to be out of here in a few days and I would like to get to know you better.”

_I know you feel this too_. Those words had been on repeat in Betty’s mind for the remainder of her shift. When Jughead had said them, she had politely shut down his invitation, telling him that it would be inappropriate for her to have any discussion like that while he was her patient. Though he looked a bit defeated, he had said he understood, and after a couple awkward interactions, their previous banter had resumed as if nothing had been said at all.

 

* * *

 

The next morning at seven, Midge arrived to relieve Betty It was her first day off in three days, and for a nurse working twelve-hour shifts, the first day off after three shifts in a row was always used to restore sanity and get some sleep; though, admittedly, she would miss the paradox that was Jughead Jones during her time off. 

Betty slept until 2 in the afternoon when her dog, a five-year-old boxer named Gatsby, insisted that she took him on a walk. 

“Okay, okay,” Betty said sleepily to the flashy fawn boxer. She threw on a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and the two of them were on their way in no time. 

It only took three steps outside of her apartment building for Betty to recognize the hunched figure sitting on the nearby bench. 

“Jughead?” Betty asked, rooted to the spot. Gatsby looked up at her to give her an annoyed glance, as if asking why they were stopped already. 

“How’s it going?” he asked, getting up and walking gingerly over to her. He bent down painfully to pet the boxer at her side. “Hello, you magnificent creature.”

“What are you doing here?” 

“The doctors discharged me,” he replied, straightening up slowly and inhaling through his teeth. “They said I’m a picture of health.”

“Clearly,” Betty replied, raising an eyebrow skeptically. 

“They did mention something about getting a lot of rest and still avoiding solid foods…or something like that,” Jughead shrugged. “But I had to come see you first.” 

“And how exactly did you know where I live?” 

“It’s not every day a pretty blonde moves to Riverdale,” Jughead told her, grinning. “People talk.” 

“Noted,” Betty said dryly. 

“In all seriousness, Betty, I needed to tell you what was going on the night I got stabbed,” Jughead told her, piercing her with his blue eyes.

“Jughead, I-” Betty began, but he cut her off. 

“Listen, I’m not your patient anymore, so this is totally kosher. I even asked your charge nurse before I left because I can tell you like following the rules. I’m not normally the type of guy that chases a girl, or anyone for that matter. I have, like, one friend.  But in all honesty, I feel something with you, and I rarely feel anything at all anymore, so I couldn’t just let myself give up on the idea of what this might be.” 

Betty nodded, urging him to continue. 

“Can we sit down before I tell you my harrowing tale?” he asked weakly. Betty noticed that the little color he had at the start of the conversation had slowly drained from his cheeks, so they made their way to the bench, her hand protectively on his shoulder. 

“The night I got stabbed,” Jughead continued once carefully seated, “I was dropping off dog food at the animal shelter. I was waiting outside for the custodian to let me in, and three guys from the Ghoulies, my gang’s rival gang, jumped me.” 

“You were dropping off food at the animal shelter?” Betty asked him blankly. Of all of the gang-related scenarios she had imagined, this was quite possibly last. 

“Yeah,” Jughead shrugged. “I have a friend that works at the grocery store, and they can’t sell expired dog food even though it’s perfectly safe to eat, so I always take the extra food to the shelter. Another acquaintance of mine is the custodian there, so he lets me in when he’s cleaning at night.” 

Betty knit her brows together, processing the information her former patient had bestowed upon her. 

“So, you’re telling me you got jumped waiting to drop off charity dog food?” Betty asked blankly. “You weren’t pushing drugs or doing _anything_ even remotely illegal?” 

“My gang, the Serpents, don’t do anything illegal,” Jughead told her. When Betty gave him a suspicious look, he amended his statement. “Anymore. We don’t do anything illegal _anymore_. I would be lying if I said we were completely innocent in the past, but my dad has really turned the group around. Are most of our members rough around the edges? Sure, but we really put a focus on bettering the community now.” 

Betty nodded. “So, you’re not involved in any sort of drug trafficking or criminal activities at all?” 

“I was pushing expired dog food at 10 PM on a Friday night, Betts. That’s about as exciting as it gets for me.” 

Betty laughed, garnering another annoyed look from Gatsby, who had sighed and curled up on the ground, giving up on any hopes of going for a walk. 

Jughead reached down and grabbed Betty’s hand, sending shivers down her spine. She was having trouble denying the attraction at this point, and she held his hand as he absent-mindedly stroked hers. Had he not been stabbed and beat up two days previously, she would have laid her head on his shoulder, but she thought better of it. 

“I know you’re only supposed to be here for a couple more months,” Jughead said, “so I was hoping that we could get to know one another over these next few weeks, and if everything goes well, maybe you might decide to stay a little longer?”

Forty-eight hours before, if anyone had mentioned signing on for another rotation in Riverdale, Betty would have laughed in his or her face. She had been counting down the days until her next assignment. However, the idea of getting to know Jughead Jones a little better was quite alluring, and she found herself thinking that _maybe, just maybe_ another rotation in Riverdale wouldn’t be so bad. In fact, it may be exciting.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, all of the thanks to Bugggghead, and if you haven't read her stuff, go do so NOW! You will not be disappointed!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


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